


Lessons of Letters and the Heart

by KieraVenic



Series: The Halla and the Crow [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Bonding, Coming to terms about sexuality, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Learning about yourself, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Sexuality, Teaching, coming to terms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-25
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-03-19 14:41:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3613734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KieraVenic/pseuds/KieraVenic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of all people, Mahariel knew the other rogue would understand his predicament. But their exchange of knowledge had turned deeper, more intimate. The others had formed their own ideas of what they did every night in Zevran's tent, but theirs was not an exchange of knowledge about the body, but knowledge of the heart and mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be a fairly short work… but it is over 16k words so far and with a whole chapter to go at the least. Phew. But here we go! Happy Zevran week!
> 
> (And I think I caught all of the typos and such. If I did not, please let me know!)

Staring blankly at the tents was not going to get him anywhere, but he could not bring himself to move forward. It was with mounting embarrassment that Ellion Mahariel had found himself beaten by a book. Said text was shifted nervously in his hands.

With trepidation he had agreed to Leliana’s suggestion that they research the Dwarven people before they travelled to Orzammar. Without a Dwarf among the core party and none who had ever been close with a Dwarven noble, it had sounded fine at the start. Bodhan may have been able to tell them about the Dwarven economy inside and out, but he had lacked the political and historical knowledge they sought.

When Ellion had agreed to research, he had figured it would be of a more verbal nature. Apparently he had figured wrong. But the merchant had been only too eager however to help them track down old texts in Denerim before they had left; not yet ready to tackle the political mess that Arl Howe had started.

A mountain of books had been presented and received in varying regard. Alistair had stared at them with hopelessness and pain. “You know, reading ancient tomes was perhaps one of the things I hated _most_ about learning to be a Templar? Is this really necessary?”

Quietly, Wynne had tutted, book already in her lap. “Come now, reading is good for you. You would be amazed at all the fascinating things you can find in ancient texts. Besides, how will you fulfill your duty as a Grey Warden if you cannot reach out to and understand your allies?”

Her gentle reprimand had worked, but Creators be damned if Alistair did not go about the task grudgingly.

Sten had ignored the texts entirely. When questioned he had remarked that anything he would need to know he would see and hear with his own body. Leliana had pouted, but did not press the issue.

As Ellion had suspected, Morrigan curiously flipped through several pages before dropping her book back onto the pile with a snort of disdain. “Small minded creatures and entirely lacking magic.”

“Not even their lyrium?” Alistair prodded. The witch curled her lip. “Lyrium is for the weak who cannot create their own power. I do not need some outside substance to allow me to cast. I use my own strength and that alone.”

Not the most graceful reply and it had certainly gained Alistair and Wynne’s ire, but Ellion could not help but respect the other woman for it. The only thing one could depend on was themselves and their own means. To be reliant on something else, or someone else, ran greater risks.

To everyone’s surprise, Zevran had actually wandered over to scan through two of the tomes, swiftly thumbing through the pages. They were less surprised when he sighed despairingly and tossed the second book aside. “Alas, no interesting pictures or stories.”

“Zevran!” Leliana hissed as she scrambled to save the text.

With mocking sadness he shook his head. “The book has told me enough. They’re a people of sad lives with no enjoyment.”

“You mean they don’t write about sex…”

“Or plotting, no. At least nothing that’s not political. No fun at all.”

Alistair’s face crinkled. “But isn’t that all the Crows do? Political assassinations?”

“Heavens, no. Make it worth our while and we will kill just about anything you request. But the Dwarves, it’s all talk and then a fighter walks up and hacks off a head. No finesse. No artistry.”

“… I’m not sure I will get used to you.”

But while the others had bantered, Ellion stared down blankly at the pages before him, utterly lost. Uneasy eyes had watched as even Sten had briefly scanned a book presented by Leliana, not hint of confusion or bemusement on the Qunari’s face. Disheartened, the Dalish Warden’s shoulders slumped.

For a time he had aimlessly flipped pages, stomach sinking at the lack of imagery. He must have stared at the pages for their entire evening meal, many of the party already gone to bed, when Leliana had peeked over his shoulder.

“You alright?”

Taken off guard by the quiet Bard, Ellion jolted. His scowl was rewarded with a giggle. “Sorry,” she uttered from behind her hand, failing to smoother her amusement. She had flashed a cheery smile and he lost any urge to be cranky; only nervous.

Did she realize?

“You just seemed quiet. Well, even more than you usually are. Thinking?”

He stuttered, “Ah, y-yes.”

Damn. That would not go unnoticed. Sure enough, her smile dissipated into a worried crinkle. “You sure that you are alright? I know you have difficulties with cities.”

Difficulty was an understatement. Even now thinking of how he had frozen after they stepped into Denerim’s gates, heart racing and breath whistling, he felt his face warm. He dipped his head to hide the flush behind the fall of blonde hair.

“A bit. My clan was… very small. I do not understand how humans can live packed in like that. Denerim was… not entirely pleasant.”

The racial slurs and the whispers of the horrors occurring in the alienage did nothing to help. His fingers tightened on the book in his hand. The Bard must have caught some of his hidden meaning as her hand had come to rest on his shoulder, squeezing the leather comfortingly. “We will help them, soon.”

Head raised to offer a grateful smile, Ellion silently doubted it. Orzammar was close to a two week walk from Denerim. There was no telling how long it would take to settle the rumored civil war or win the new King or Queen’s favor. Then of course there was the trip back and then chipping away at the human nobles. There was no telling that would happen to the alienage in that time frame. He was not even sure what was happening now or why the Elves did not fight it. The whole thing seemed daunting and made his stomach churn.

With a few murmured words of goodnight, he had taken his leave, stepping away from the camp fire to head into his tent.

And that was where he had found himself now, on the other side of the camp in the night shadows staring awkwardly at their collection of haphazard tents. Well, more one tent in particular. And he had a feeling that the tent’s occupant was well aware of his presence.

_Just get it over with_ , he mentally hissed at himself.

“Are you going to come in and say hello or are am I going to have to come out there and get you, my dear Warden?”

Ellion sighed, ruffling his hair. Well, there was no avoiding it now.

Slowly, the tent flap was brushed aside and he ducked into the darkened interior. Armorless, but not naked like Ellion had half expected, Zevran watched him enter, openly curious.

“And what brings you to my humble tent this evening?” A sassy wag of his brows chased away much of Ellion’s nervousness.

With a quiet laugh he knelt beside Zevran at the edge of the other Elf’s bedroll. “Not that. I…” he licked his lips. “I actually have a favor to ask.”

The Antivan’s smile widened into a grin. “Oh? What sort of favor?”

“Not that!” Ellion hastened to repeat.

The attempt at feigned innocence was neither successfully pulled off nor believed. With a chuckle, Zevran shrugged. “Cannot blame a person for trying. What is it then that I can offer you help with?”

It must have been a strange sight to see him like this; Knelt with the book resting on his thighs, fingers picking at the fraying leather cover, and head bowed as he worried his lip in his teeth. Normally he was always so sure in his choices. Time was taken to think things over, but he would never have called it hesitation; thoughtfulness perhaps. This, however, was nothing but. Too ashamed to make his request aloud.

So, instead, Ellion hedged around the subject. Zevran watched him with shrewd eyes, head cocked curiously. “Zevran… you—you know how to read, right?”

Warily, bright green eyes inched up to meet hazel. Zevran studied him a moment longer before some of the teasing left his expression. “Ah. I see.” His eyes flicked down to the book that was fiddled in the Warden’s lap.

Ellion cringed and looked away.

“You are ashamed.”

A challenge. Frowning, Ellion forcibly snapped his eyes back to Zevran, meeting the other Elf’s eyes and holding. And like that, much of his embarrassment faded. There was no judgment or mockery on Zevran’s face, simply the same old relaxed and easy smile he often wore. He had baited Ellion’s pride and swept away his anxiety in one simple gesture, all without harm.

It was frightening how quickly this Elf had learned to read and manipulate him. Ellion released the breath he had been holding. He was not sure yet if that was a good or a bad thing. Alistiar would probably balk at the idea, and yet, as of this moment Zevran had never used that talent to hurt them; only aid or the periodic tease.

This time, he did not look away though his fingers twitched against the reflexive urge to grip his nape. “I had hoped that you could teach me.”

“Teach you?”

The dirty bastard was going to make him say it. Ellion sighed. He should have expected that. Zevran knew full well, but he was forcing the Warden to look at the problem directly. It should not have been a surprise that the assassin would not let him skirt around the topic.

“To read.” A pause, then, “I can’t read.”

“Is that common?”

Ellion’s eyes darted around the tent, to the book, then back to the other Elf, looking for a clue. “I’m sorry?”

“Is it common that the Dalish are not taught to read?” Not the answer Ellion had been expecting, but the words lacked offense and none was taken.

“I’m unsure. In my clan it was not uncommon. We learned what was necessary to do our daily tasks. I was a hunter. I did not need to know how to read to make kills, to skin, to gather, and to cook. Everything I know was taught to me by words and example. Our First, Merrill, she could read, but it was necessary for her to learn our history in greater detail; to learn our language and spells.”

A thoughtful hum filled the tent and then, “Out of curiosity, why me? Not that I am not flattered of course and besides the obvious. I am quite pleasing to look at after all and have been told I have a charming voice. You may however find someone like Wynne or Leliana of more academic value.”

It was not an unusual question. Ellion supposed it may have seemed an odd choice to pick Zevran over everyone in the party. But the open way Zevran watched him only affirmed his choice as the right one.

Subconsciously, he tucked a loose lock of hair behind his ear. “I guess I felt that you over everyone else could understand more humble beginnings. You don’t seem the type to belittle someone for something like illita—illiterat—” The word was stumbling and awkward in his mouth. The wrong letters slipping into the wrong places. His head ducked. “For something like being unable to read.”

Well that was embarrassingly wonderful. It was a stupid idea to try and throw out a word he only half knew and had never bothered to try using before.

“But no pressure,” he hastened to add. “If you do not want to that’s complet—”

“Sure, why not. It could be fun,” Zevran quipped.

Surprised by the sudden and easy agreement, Ellion glanced up sharply, staring in mute surprise. Then, Zevran’s words registered. There was no telling exactly what Zevran meant by “fun” but a few things came to mind.

Skin heated, Ellion grumbled, “Not that.”

Far from offended, Zevran gestured in mock affront. “Why does everyone always assume I mean sex?”

“You spent half our trip from Denerim to camp creating poetry about Wynne’s ‘bosom’…”

“And why not?” Zevran laughed unabashedly. “It is a fine bosom, particularly for a woman of her age. But not this time, my dear Warden. Between you and me, she is quite easily distractible if one does not like her line of questions or commentary. Though, if you would rather partake in other skills of mine, I think that would be far more interesting.”

The nearly forgotten book was held up towards Zevran’s face and given a shake. “Reading.”

“A shame, such a boring learning experience too. Dwarves.” The final word was punctuated with a jesting tsk of disappointment. Or perhaps not so jesting. It was hard to tell with the assassin sometimes.

Ellion shook his head. “And where exactly would we get something more interesting anyway? … Wait, don’t answer that.”

“Come now, I’m sure we could find something far more captivating in camp. Perhaps Morrigan or Leliana’s journals? Our pretty witch may try to hide it, but I’ve seen her jotting notes in a fancy little journal of hers. Oh!” he perked up. “Even better, Alistair’s.”

The pure glee in Zevran’s voice at the idea was too much. Caught in laughter, Ellion hunched over his lap trying to catch his breath. “Don’t you dare!” he gasped out. “Besides, I do not want to read about Leliana’s shoe obsession and I already know Morrigan desires to turn Alistair into a toad.”

“Suit yourself,” Zevran pouted teasingly. “But it will be far more interesting than Dwarven politics, I assure you.”

Despairingly, Ellion sighed. His nose crinkled, lip curling, as he stared down at the book. “True, but be that as it may, I’d rather keep myself in my companions’ good graces.”

The other Elf hummed. “For being a little short on vocabulary you are still rather well spoken, you know.”

“Keeper Marethari.” Her name was said with pride, reverence. “We may have lacked in education in some areas, but she always wanted us to present ourselves well, when possible. She was trying to move us away some from our reclusion. She felt we stood a better chance that way, but I don’t know…”

The Humans. Ellion’s lips tightened, just shy of pursing. He had let them live, against Tamlen’s desire, and in return for being spared they fled to their Lord and raise their swords against them. Some nights he had nightmares that the clan was unable to get away, that the Humans had caught up to them and slain them. Worse, he had no idea if it was true or not. He had not had any contact with them since Duncan had conscripted him.

Whether Zevran noticed the change in his mood or not, Ellion was unaware. He started from his thoughts as he felt fingers swiftly unbuckle the straps of his shoulder armor.

“What are you doing? I thought was said ‘not that’?”

“True, we did, and we aren’t, but there is no reason that a student and teacher cannot be comfortable, no?”

Valid, even if perhaps there were some ulterior intentions involved. Still, he brushed Zevran’s hands away as they started to work on his chest armor. “Alright, alright, but I am going to go change.”

Green eyes rolled at Zevran’s particularly smug and triumphant look as Ellion left the tent. Curiously, Zevran followed, but headed off towards Bodhan instead of following the Warden back to the tent he shared with Alistair.

Inside, the human snored loudly. It was no shock to find his arms banded around Fenrir, Ellion’s Mabari. The Elf shook his head with soft laughter. Knowing now that Alistair had spent most of his childhood curled up with a pack of dogs, it was amusing, and admittedly adorable, to see the man revert to old habits. Contrary to Alistair’s fear that Ellion would judge him for such events in his life, the Dalish had actually warmed further to the wisecracking Human.

In return for such a trusting and honest admission, Ellion had offered assurance, that no, Alistair was not strange. Indeed, Ellion had contentedly shared that even now as an adult he had often spent nights sleeping with the clan’s halla herd. Alistair had visibly perked up, happy to find a kindred animal lover. Less enthused, Morrigan had to suffer through several hours of the pair trading both humorous and wild tales of their experiences with animals.

Both Alistair and Fenrir slept on as Ellion swiftly undid his leather armor, setting it aside as he tugged on more comfortable clothing. The more traditional Dalish leggings wrapped snuggly around his legs, allowing his bare toes and heels to feel the comforting earth beneath them. Still slipping a loose sleeping tunic over his head, he snuck back out of the tent to leave the sleepers in peace.

By the time he returned to Zevran’s tent, the other Elf was already reseated on his sleeping roll, still in only a pair of pants. His hazel eyes curiously trailed over Ellion’s clothing. It was not often that the Elf Warden walked around in anything beside his armor.

“Are most things the Dalish wear green?”

Ellion glanced down at his clothing and wondered for the first time if perhaps his attire seemed strange to others. His tunic was a soft tan, but his leggings were a deeper green common among Dalish attire. “No, depends on the season. It’s warm and the flowers and trees are blooming. Green, blues, and browns allow us to better blend in with the forest. In the fall there are more reds and yellows instead of green and blue and in the winter we wear more whites and grays. Location and season change what we wear so that we may better move through the land unseen.”

“Wise and most curious. Then I propose a trade.”

From most, such a request would have left Ellion wary. Considering this Elf had tried to kill him and was often propositioning him, Ellion supposed he should have been suspicious, and yet in this moment he felt… light; almost eager. He wanted to hear, to trade. It was a strange sensation. In the past he had only felt so open towards other Dalish and even then usually only his own clan.

“Alright. What?”

“I will teach you letters and words if you will teach me of the Dalish and their culture.”

“I’m sorry?” Bewildered, Ellion openly stared, mouth parted.

A moment of thought. Zevran looked strangely serious; his eyes turned downward and gazing into some middle distance. When he looked up again his gaze was set, determined. “The other whores when I was younger rarely spoke of my mother, but it had been mentioned that she was of Dalish origin. Let us say I am curious for personal reasons, never mind that it is fascinating to learn of other cultures and not just because it makes it easier to kill them. Ah, too much I think. I intend no harm to the Dalish.”

And, perhaps strangely, Ellion believed him.

It was then that Ellion noticed the journal in Zevran’s lap. That was new. He frowned. “Please tell me you did not actually take someone’s journal…”

Laughing, Zevran shook his head. “No. First trade. I shall tell you about this,” the journal was held aloft and jiggled, “if you tell me about that.”

Tanned fingers motioned to the silver pendant that hung around Ellion’s neck. Subconsciously, he touched the familiar warmth. He had almost forgotten about it. Normally it was kept hidden under his armor, but with the low open front of his tunic, it must have slipped free.

“Oh, this? It was my mother’s. Supposedly.”

“Supposedly?”

“I never knew her.” Now loose and free from their usual series of braids, Ellion ran his fingers through blonde strands that hung not much past his shoulders. The gesture was traced by the other’s eyes. “My father was the Keeper of my clan before Keeper Marethari. My mother though was a huntress from another clan that often travelled near ours. They had fallen in love, much to the disapproval of her clan, apparently. When she was heavily pregnant with me they had met up together in the woods.”

“Ah, forbidden love, a tryst. I approve.”

The tease was met with an amused scoff. Good naturedly, Ellion snarked back, “You would.” More somber, he went on, “But they were found by a group of Humans. They killed my father and wounded my mother. She got away, but the shock of it sent her into labor. She made it back to my father’s clan before she gave birth to me. No one is quite sure what happened to her… My foster mother, Ashalle, says that after my birth she went off into the woods and simply never came back. They don’t know if she went to hunt the Humans or if she killed herself in her grief. She left this behind for me.”

His fingers slipped down the pendent, raising it for examination. The silver face of a halla stared back at him with emerald eyes. Silent he wondered if this was what had started his fondness for the creatures.

Movement caught his attention and he glanced up as Zevran shifted closer. His hand lifted, hovering close to the pendent, gesture and eyes silently asking for permission. Ellion nodded and released the necklace as Zevran’s fingers carefully took it from his grip. The gentle way in which he handled it was telling and Ellion found himself smiling softly.

Quiet, Zevran murmured, “She must have loved you to leave this for you. It is a beautiful piece.”

The words drew a sigh. “But not enough to stay for me…” Neither Elf looked at one another, both staring at the silver in Zevran’s hand. After a time, Ellion shook his head, dismissing the subject. “But it is the past and unchangeable. Come, I have letters to learn apparently. What is that?”

“This,” the journal was opened to a blank page, “is a learning tool, my friend.”

Ellion’s expression crinkled. “You cheat. It’s empty.”

“A cheat?” Zevran laughed. “How so?”

“Trading a story for an empty book.”

A quill and a tiny bottle of ink were brought around from the other side of Zevran’s bedroll. “Empty for now, yes, but not long. To learn, we cannot just start with that _stunning_ piece of literature that you brought for us. We need to begin a little more basic, I am afraid.”

Ellion frowned. “Don’t I need to learn to read before I can write?”

“Indeed, but it is I that will be writing.” The quill was flourished before it was dipped into the ink.

“Where did you even get these? You just carry around ink, quills, and blank journals?”

“Parchment sometimes, you never know when a message would need to be sent back to the Masters and Maestros, however these are thanks to our stocky merchant companion. He has a very strange assortment of goods, by the way. He claims that pigeon he carts around is uncrushable.”

“… An uncrushable pigeon…”

Carefully, Zevran began writing several lines of… something on the first page. “Indeed.”

“Why would anyone need an uncrushable pigeon? And what are those?”

The feather traced over Zevran’s lower lip, a thoughtful gesture more than any attempt to flirt, before he added a few other marks to the page and sat back satisfied. “I would imagine it would make a rather reliable carrier pigeon, but alas, we have no need for messages I think. These,” he said as set the quill aside, “are letters. In order to figure out what a word should sound like you will need to learn how the letters sound first.”

A cringe was suppressed. This just might be a little more intensive and difficult than Ellion had imagined. Then again, he was not sure what he had really expected. His clan was rather devoid of books besides those that the Keeper kept. All of their stories were passed down to one another orally. All of his lessons and training as a hunter and leather worker had been shown and told not read. His hair was ruffled with a slow exhale. This would be interesting.

The journal was passed over and tentatively accepted. Ellion stared blankly down at the seemingly random little squiggles on the page.

“Your writing is… not what I expected,” he stalled. “It’s much curlier than the Dwarven letters from that tome.” Then again, what did he know about hand writing?

“True enough. My trainer felt that such extravagance was a waste of time to practice, but never can it be said that I am not an Elf fond of beautiful things.” A pointed glance was sent his way, but Ellion was more focused on the journal than processing the unsubtle flirt.

“So… All of these are letters then?”

Affirmation hummed low. “Mostly. These first two lines. Now these,” Zevran gestured to another row that was further down the page. “Are common combinations of letters that make certain sounds, but we will get to those later. First, focus on the top two lines.”

That was a lot of sounds, but then, words were so varied. Ellion inched forward so the archer was nearly knee to knee with Zevran. Then, one by one, Zevran traced his finger from letter to letter, uttering their names, and sounds aloud.

“… So… some letters have more than one sound…?”

“Indeed. You will generally know what sound they make based on the letter that comes after them, thus those combinations below. Again, do not trouble about that for now. Just remember the sounds and we’ll focus on the when once you get that.”

Complicated. But if he could fluidly switch between Elvhen and Fereldan then he could do this. … He hoped.

After Zevran had run through the letters twice, he gestured to Ellion. “Alright. Start from the beginning and go through.”

Spring eyes flicked up, unsure, before darting back to the page. Awkward and halting, Ellion stumbled his way through the letters. Mistakes were never reprimanded only gently corrected.

“Nnn?”

“Not quite. That’s the next one. Mmm is the sound for that. M.”

“Mmm, nnn, ah? No, O?”

“Correct.”

The way the other Elf beamed made such a minute accomplishment feel grander than it was. It was both appreciated and yet made him feel all the more silly for not knowing these things to begin with. Self-consciously, he brushed hanging hair back, using the motion to distract himself from the complicated feelings tightening in his chest.

Finally, at the end, Ellion fairly sagged in relief. Finished. Only, not quite. Not about to let him off easy, Zevran gestured back to the start. “Again.”

But where some improvements were made, other mistakes cropped up. Each brought a cringe or wince. Had he not gotten that correct only moments ago? How could he forget so easily? To the end and then back again. The third time through was little better and he felt his muscles tense in frustration.

Perhaps sensing it, Zevran did not make him start again.

“Combinations. This is how you will better know what makes what sound when and some will change completely.”

Slowly, Zevran went through each again much like he had with the single letters, repeating it a second time to help it sink in. Periodic quips were snuck in, little teases to distract and relax, but they only helped so much.

Combinations were cautiously fumbled through. After a series of four repeated errors in a row, Ellion hissed. “Fenedhis.”

Zevran’s eyebrows darted up along with his eyes. “Not sure what that is, but I would judge by the sound that it is not complimentary.”

Anxious that the other would take offense, Ellion was quick to defend. “Not you. I mean, that wasn’t directed at you. I’m just…” The words trailed away with a heavy exhale, his shoulders dropping as he looked away. “Angry, I guess.”

“With?”

“Myself.” Fingers rubbed at his hot cheeks and at his eyelids; an attempt to hide his face that he would never admit to. He wished he could press the color out of his skin that traitorously gave away his shame yet again. He envied Zevran his darker skin that made it easier to hide such telling signs. Not that he could see the sometimes (often) crude Elf blushing. “I am angry at myself for being so… stupid.”

In the corner of his vision he saw Zevran’s head tip; an attempt to see him better. A little further, Ellion turned his head away.

“Why would you say that?”

Why? Ellion frowned. The way Zevran had spoken, the easy way the others had trailed their eyes over the word laden pages of their newly acquired texts made it seem as though reading was common knowledge. So then did not that make him a fool?

He did not look to the other as he spoke. “If the seasons are any sign, I am just past my twenty first year now. Despite being a fully-fledged adult for several years now I do not even know my letters.” He laughed, bitterly. “You could show me my own name and I’d have no idea.”

“That hardly makes you stupid.”

The look cast the assassin’s way was dubious, but he was undaunted. “All your life you have not had much of a cause to learn. To do so would perhaps have been a waste of time for the life style you led. You needed to focus your skills and attention elsewhere. But, now, you need to focus your skills and time on reading so that is what we shall do.”

As the last words were spoken Zevran rose to his feet, hunched to maneuver around the low tent. Turned away as he was, Ellion lost sight of the other Elf. Without warning, a warm weight settled behind him and he started.

Confused and mildly alarmed, Ellion glanced back, nearly brushing noses with Zevran who had seated himself behind the archer. “What are you doing?” the paler blonde blurted.

“Simply allowing us to get more comfortable.” It seemed a little more personal than comfortable as Zevran pressed up against Ellion’s back, his tanned legs on either side of Ellion’s own. Unsure, Ellion stared a moment longer before turning back as Zevran situated the journal into Ellion’s lap.

Plucking up the quill, he propped his chin on Ellion’s shoulder and scrawled out a few words.

Warm breath brushed his ear. “Come, read this for me.” The shift of Zevran’s jaw brushed his neck and Ellion shivered.

And yet, despite the initial confusion and anxiety he felt oddly… comforted. He wondered at that; the heated weight of another leaning against his back, their hair tickling his ear, and hands lightly resting at his hips.

As the physical comfort worked at his mental distress, Ellion tentatively picked at the words laid out for him.

“Ah… Ah-el. … Eye?”

“Keep going.”

“Ss-t-ah-eye-er?”

“Close,” Zevran said with a hum of approval. “The ‘I’ is a short one though. Don’t lengthen the letter out. Say it like ‘ih’.”

“Ah-el-ih-ss-t-ah-ih-er?”

“Now combine ah and el,” Zevran murmured encouragingly.

Silently, Ellion’s mouth worked as he attempted to string together the slowly changing sounds. Then, “… Al-ih-ss-t-ah-ih-er. Wait, is that Alistair?”

“Yep! See? That was not so terrible, was it?” The rogue’s grin could be felt, the rise of his cheeks pressing against Ellion’s own. Tingles broke out against his skin and he felt his pulse flutter with joy at the encouragement.

“… Alistair doesn’t use all of the letters when you say it though.”

The crinkle of irritated disgust at the bridge of his nose and that crept into his voice drew a laugh from Zevran. “Yes and no. You will find that words are rude like that. They will have many letters that you will not always use. Words adapted from Orlesian are the worst offenders of that, I am afraid.”

“Alright so… Alistair… ih-s?”

“Yep, is.”

“Alistair is a… G-ih-t? Alistair is a git… Zevran…”

The other rogue may have been out of direct eyesight, but Ellion could easily imagine the impish look on his face.

“Your first sentence! Congratulations!” Zevran chirped.

“My first sentence was an insult.” His voice was flat, but there was no disguising the growing smile on Ellion’s face born of both joy and amusement.

“Bah, details. Come, another! Hmm, actually, a thought. Would you like to see it?”

“… Your thought? I’m not sure if that’s a safe question to answer.”

A chuckle purred in his ear, lips purposefully brushing against the lobe of his ear. “He learns. But no, not that. I meant your name. Would you like to see it?”

His name. Perhaps it was foolish to be near giddy at the thought of being able to see his own name, but Ellion felt his stomach flutter none the less. Enthusiastically he nodded. “Please.”

Zevran dabbed the quill back into the ink well. “Eager, are we? Though, I must admit, I do not know if it is with two ‘L’s or one. …Or two ‘E’s or an ‘E’ and an ‘I’.”

The only thing Ellion could do was shrug helplessly. He knew less than the rogue. Pathetic, perhaps, but his eyes were too busy eagerly tracing the black lines as they formed on the page for him to dwell.

‘Elion’

‘Ellion’

‘Eleon’

‘Elleon’

His nose crinkled. “That’s quite a few possibilities.”

“Quite, though I would wager that the top two are more likely.” The quill tip tapped the page thoughtfully, leaving minute splatters on the page.

“Honestly, I do not know, but the two ‘L’s looks better.”

The rumble of the other Elf’s amusement vibrated along his back. Subconsciously, Ellion leant back into it. “An Elf for aesthetics, eh?”

Ellion’s head half turned to stare in bemusement. “… Es-the-what?”

What had started off silently broke into a flurry as Zevran pressed the bridge of his nose into Ellion’s shoulder in a failing attempt to muffle his uncontrollable laughter. It was several deep breaths before he regained control of his merriment. “Aesthetics. It means visual beauty. To like something for aesthetics means to like it for its appearance.”

Hesitantly offering a small smile, Ellion observed the other Elf. “That’s not bad, is it?”

“No, not at all given that, perhaps surprising to hear from one like myself, it is not all that one cares about in the end.”

It could not be denied that Ellion had not expected to hear that from Zevran in particular, and yet, having seen rare serious and insightful moments from the assassin, he could not say he was surprised that it existed, simply that it was voiced. The hesitance in his smile vanished, lips curling higher as Zevran rested his chin on his shoulder once more.

With a touch more levity, Zevran continued, “I am often quite taken by aesthetics, though frequently I find the core is rotten.”

“You mean people.”

With an affirmative hum, Zevran reached around the archer and circled ‘Ellion’ on the page. “Two ‘L’s and an ‘I’ it is. Ellion.”

The word rolled on the rogue’s tongue; purred out into Ellion’s ear. Unable to stop it, Ellion felt a hard shiver wrack through his body. He felt the smug curve of Zevran’s lips as they pressed against his neck. Ellion was not aware of the way he had tipped his head, allowing the other Elf to press another kiss until it had already happened. Warmth tingled along the tendons of his neck as he felt the other nuzzle the skin there before drawing back. Ellion wondered if it was any surprise when he leaned his head to rest against Zevran’s for several quiet moments.

“Continue?”

The question was ambiguous and Ellion knew it was left purposefully so. His teeth worried at his lip. The hesitation that arose was taken as a sign. Not ready; not yet.

The journal in his lap was tellingly brought closer to his body. “I would like that.”

“Then continue we shall.” No disappointment and no pressure. Ellion breathed deeply, grateful for the other’s patience and understanding. The others may have been annoyed at Zevran for being a terrible flirt, but Ellion had seen that the other Elf never took things too far. Boundaries that were drawn were never crossed; carefully toed perhaps, but never pushed or broken.

The alphabet was run through again, a refresher before Zevran carefully constructed simple words and small sentences for Ellion to mull over. They were awkward and stumbling in his mouth, often wrong, but never did Zevran scold or show frustration or disappointment. A patient teacher, Zevran utter soft encouragement and gentle corrections. Periodic teasing was carefully worded, never to rile, only to ease and draw out laughter.

“So, Wynne has a veh… veh-er-y?”

“Very.”

“Wynne has a very n-eye… c-e?”

“That ‘E’ is silent.”

A finger irritably tapped at the word. “Why in the world would you put that on there then?”

“A good question. We can write a petition to the Queen, or technically Ser Loghain more likely, and ask them to remove all silent letters.” The rogue was already turning the page in his journal to start penning a letter. Lightly, Ellion whapped his arm with the back of his hand.

“Ass.” The word spit out to hide his laughter.

Encouraged, Zevran grinned. “Would you like me to teach you how to spell that one? It’s quite short.”

“ _Wynne has a very nice_ boss-- … Zevran… I refuse to read that.” Face flat, Ellion leaned to the side so he could turn to level Zevran with his stare.

Unrepentant, Zevran wagged a finger at him instead. “Ah ah! It is part of the lesson. I cannot pass you if you do not read all of it.”

“I am not talking about Wynne’s body like that!”

“Ah, I see. I should have seen it before. I apologize.”

“Seen what?” Green eyes squinted with suspicion. “What are you talking about?”

A sigh of feigned dramatics. “You are jealous. I should have known. All my talk of Wynne’s exquisite features and her stunning figure. I should have realized that you would be upset that I was paying attention elsewhere. I am shamed. Here, we shall read of your chiseled features and toned thighs.”

“Zevran!” Ellion squawked.

“You don’t like the use of the word chiseled? No matter. We can think of better words.”

Face red, Ellion buried his face into his hands. His words escaped, muffled, through his fingers. “By the Creators, I’m going to end up choking you one of these days, aren’t I?”

Undeterred, Zevran happily began jotting down incorrigible ideas. Most were only half read before Ellion would sputter or smack his leg leaving the rogue gleeful. In time things took a more serious turn back to actual effort, but it was not long before their words softened and dragged with exhaustion.

It was when Ellion began to nod off that Zevran tugged the journal and book from his lap. The Dalish made no protest, somewhat relieved to at last have a break.

His drowsiness made him sluggish to process when his hair was brushed away from the back of his neck, the arms that banded around his waist or the sensation of nuzzling at the nape of his neck.

Tiredly, Ellion mumbled, “I should get back to my tent.”

“Stay?” A question and yet not quite.

“They’ll wonder,” came out in a yawn.

“Let them.”

And when Zevran pulled him down, there was no resistance. A tired mind wondered if hands would wander, but they remained limply curled around his waist. The faint brush of breath tickled through his hair when Zevran settled behind him, face pressed into Ellion’s hair. Curled together the pair drifted off.


	2. Chapter 2

There were stares when they emerged from the tent in the morning, but Ellion held his head high. He knew what they were thinking, but he and Zevran had done nothing the night before. Even if they had it was not wrong.

Alistair watched particularly close, his face creased in worry. The other Warden’s anxiety was understood; Ellion knew that he feared that Zevran was only getting close so that he could finish the job he had started. It was something Ellion had considered when Zevran suggested that he join them instead of being put to death.

Yet, despite that, Ellion had decided to trust him. There was something about the way Zevran was frank and open about his life, his dealings, and what he desired that had disarmed Ellion’s suspicions. Alistair was worried that, while the rogue might have been honest, that it was that honesty he was using as a weapon to lower their guard. True, the rogue had an admitted penchant for sometimes sleeping with targets, but this did not feel like that.

Maybe Ellion was wrong. Perhaps Zevran was simply setting him up and yet… He thought of the comforting weight that had leaned against his back last night, the quiet words of approval, and the way Zevran had held him as they slept.

He had half expected some sort of duplicity in the action, it would not have come as any surprise, but the gesture had been entirely platonic. There had been no sweeping hands or grasping fingers; no teeth or lips roaming his skin; no press of hips or rubbing. Zevran had simply pulled Ellion against his chest, nuzzled into his hair, and gone to sleep.

Ellion smiled, lost in the memory. It had been a long time since he had slept beside anyone in a manner like that; childhood, in fact. Memories of chilly fall nights or early spring when he and the other children of the clan would pile together like sleepy lynx kittens. Tamlen always bemoaned being stuck in the middle. Merrill on one side and Ellion on the other, Fenarel draped across all of them. Junar would resist, but usually found himself grudgingly curled up at the edge of their pile, back to back with Merrill; Fenarel’s leg flung over his side.

It was pleasant. He had not realized how much he had missed simply having another beside him. A quiet contented company.

“Enjoying yourself?”

Ellion glanced up to find Zevran watching, a curious smirk on his face. The archer’s smile did not diminish; if anything it strengthened. Zevran’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, some of his humor sharpening into more serious inquiry.

“I am,” Ellion answered honestly. “I wanted to thank you; for the lesson. I... I also enjoyed sleeping. I did not expect to miss having another beside me like that.”

“Oh? The Dalish share beds often? Or just you?”

From anyone else, the question would have irritated him. With Zevran he knew there was no judgment; it was simple curiosity. “No to both. It has been a while. Myself and the others of my age range tended to sleep in a pile when it was cold or we were excitable about something. A holiday, usually.”

“Ahh, I see. Well it was my pleasure then. If you ever miss it again, I would be happy to oblige.”

There. The smirk had changed, just so, into a smile. Ellion did not look away, eyes wavering as he studied the other Elf. He knew he was being studied just as intently in return. There was no leering, no hidden messages, and not hint of lust. A simple offer of companionship. Reassurance that he had made the right choice to trust the rogue strengthened.

“Could we do this again?”

“The reading or the sleeping?”

“Reading though… Perhaps sleeping.” His cheeks tensed against a wince as he failed not to look away, if only briefly. He could not deny he was not mildly unsure or uncomfortable with the idea of pursuing anything with Zevran. It was not hard to read, he was sure.

“Remember, no more than you are willing to give. If you desire to simply read, than read we shall do.”

The tension in his belly eased. He had not even realized it had begun. With a deep breath, Ellion made a choice. Twisting on his heel, he stepped toward the rogue. Zevran watched, but stayed still as Ellion entered into his personal space. He was aware the others were probably staring. Then, a little tentatively, Ellion nudged their noses together in a familiar gesture of affection among his clan.

“Thank you,” he murmured quiet. A swift and light peck to the tip of the rogue’s nose defining the meaning of the nudge and the words.

Understanding gleamed in hazel eyes. “You are welcome, my dear Warden.”

Ellion smiled and stepped back. Silently he wondered if the others were truly aware that Zevran was always conscious of their boundaries; that he would tease and nudge, but he would never break or hurt.

Yes, he was glad he had spared Zevran.

The two pulled apart and went about their normal morning routine. Still in his sleeping clothes, Ellion approached the fire, curiously peeking into the pot of whatever Wynne had created this morning.

Heavy footsteps approached. Slow. Cautious. “What was that?” Tentative and yet the words still held an edge.

Ellion glanced up through his hair. “What was what?”

Half-dressed himself, Alistair shifted, notably uncomfortable. He gestured towards Zevran who was carefully studying his daggers for nicks in their edges in the morning light. “You two… You were not in the tent in the morning and then you came out and… Did you kiss?”

Ellion’s darker brows furrowed. He understood the man’s concern, but the question raised his hackles. “That is not your business.” Sharp, perhaps too much so. Honestly, the archer was quite fond of the Human and willing to call him friend. Alistair was a kind spirit, a little unsure and over eager, but jovial and good natured. He meant well in everything he did, but sometimes he allowed the narrowness of how he had been raised as a Templar to cloud how he viewed the world.

Sensing a line might have been crossed, Alistair cringed, but he held his ground. Part of Ellion was proud of the man for finally beginning to gain his confidence; the other part silently cursed himself for that peep talk/lecture he had leveled the Human with after the scalding meeting with Goldanna.

“Look, he tried to kill us once; you and I above all else. I’m just worried. You’re my friend, you know. Friends tend to do that.”

With a sigh, Ellion conceded. He just wished he did not have to drag his private dealings into the light like this. Still, there was no way he was admitting to the slightly younger Human that he could not read. Alistair might have meant well by it, but Ellion knew that he would tease and joke. His pride was still too tender for that. The last thing he wanted to do was allow his temper to get out of hand. Ellion knew full well the hurt he could do if he let his anger get the best of him.

“I know. And to answer your question, no we did not kiss. And to answer your next question we did not have sex either.”

It was rather cute the way the word sex made Alistair twitch. Even his coppery skin tone could not hide the faint flush of his cheeks. Ellion felt the last of his irritation give way into a smirk. Two could tease.

“I thought you would be happy to hear that. Yet you seem embarrassed to hear we didn’t have _sex_.” The emphasis did not go unnoticed and Alistair huffed.

“Don’t think I didn’t hear that. Some of us are uh… a little… lacking. In experience that is! Not uh, other things.”

The hasty way Alistair blurted the words was too much. A burst of laughter tore from Ellion before he could stop it.

“Heeeey,” Alistair fussed.

“I am laughing with you,” Ellion managed to squeeze out.

“Uh huh…”

“I am serious. Besides,” he said quieter and in control of his amusement once more. “That is nothing to be ashamed of. It was only in the past year that I stopped ‘lacking’ as you put it.”

Curious, Alistair’s expression relaxed. “Really?”

“Really.”

What Ellion did not elaborate on was the fact that it was actually the past month and with the very rogue that Alistair was worrying about. No need to send his mother hen fretting again.

“I realized that there is… a rather basic skill that I don’t know. I asked Zevran to teach me. That is why I was not in the tent. I ended up falling asleep.”

Alistair squinted; brain trying to put two and two together. “Basic skill…”

There he went again, making assumptions. Ellion rolled his eyes. “Yes. I asked Zevran because he also has rather humble beginnings. Some of us did not have fancy Chantry lessons, tutors, the Circle, or wizened, albeit crazy, mothers to teach us everything. I figured of all people he would best understand and would not tease.”

“Zevran… not tease…”

“I don’t have bosoms for him to write poetry about.”

Despite the nature of the topic, Alistair could not help but grin. “True.” It was short lived though as his face grew serious and earnest. “You know, I had rather humble beginnings myself. I doubt there is much you could say about late education that I could not understand.”

“I know, but you have a tendency to jest and I have a tendency to over react to everything and get punchy.” A gentle tease to soften the words and avoid any offense.

“Ha, true enough. You were pretty prickly in the beginning.”

“Pretty sure I am still pretty prickly now.”

“You said it, not me!”

Out of nowhere a wooden spoon rapped Ellion’s hand and he jerked it away from the pot with a hiss. “Alright, alright you two. Shoo with you so I can finish breakfast.”

Ellion hastened to retreat from Wynne, but Alistair was a little slower. “Yes, mother.”

Eyes narrowed, but alight with playfulness, Wynne shook her spoon threateningly at the young man. “Off with you or no breakfast!”

“Now that is a threat! Alright, I’m going. I promise.”

Breakfast was a quiet affair and in time the presence of food made the last lingering curiosity of the change in sleeping arrangements fade. Questions about their research were carefully tip toed around.

Wynne was the first to break the quiet that had fallen. “Dwarven culture is quite austere.”

“It is. I was surprised,” Leliana agreed. “The surface Dwarves I’d met always seemed so… Well, blunt, but less serious and frankly grouchy sounding.”

“That’s because they want you to buy their stuff. Most of them are merchants,” Alistair quipped around a mouthful of food.

With a sound of disgust, Morrigan moved further away from the ex-Templar. Cheeky, Alistair grinned, more than pleased with the reaction.

He supposed it was only a matter of time before they had looked to him. Wynne smiled across the smoldering fire. “Any ideas yet?”

“It’s a… work in progress.” The words were spoken into his food, partly muffled, but they were accepted for what they were.

With a laugh, Leliana added, “Work in progress indeed. From what I’ve seen this might be slightly more complicated. There seems to be some form of council of elders or households that we will probably need to win over.”

Fabulous. Ellion mulled over that. If Keeper Marethari’s scathing remarks about their own council of Keepers were anything to go on, the gatherings of clans, or in this case families, were a mess of disagreements. This would definitely be more problematical than they had hoped.

In short order camp was packed and they had headed out. At their head, Ellion lead them through the wilds, off the roads. Alistair had bemoaned the rough terrain to some extent, but it allowed them to avoid ambushes from highway men. Of course, it was often just off the roads where those bandits lurked. Eyes focused on the rutted roads, their little bands never realized that the travelers were upon them until it was too late. More than one group of robbers had met their end that day and the roads were a little safer.

“I just don’t get it,” Alistair grumbled as he shook blood from his blade before running it over with a cloth. “What is it about a Blight where everyone decides this is a good time to start fighting each other?”

“Opportunity, my friend,” Zevran spoke up as he rolled one body over with his foot. “These fellows look to be old time practitioners of banditry. With everyone fleeing the darkspawn, however, these vultures leave their normal roosts and flock to the regions where they will find the most refugees.”

A harsh truth. Lip curled, Alistair sneered down at one of the dead men. “Well good riddance then. These poor people have enough to fear without thieves.”

The bodies were stripped of anything that would be of value to them and left to the forest animals.

Decent progress was made that day and when night fell, their pace slowed while they hunted for a good place to rest for the night. It was with some eagerness that Ellion awaited the evening hours. His luck with a trio of rabbits and Morrigan catching sight of wild vegetables provided them with a hearty dinner. Despite the good meal, Ellion found himself rushing through it and anxiously awaiting the others to begin turning in for the evening.

Automatically Ellion returned to his tent to remove his armor. Alistair watched, a mixture of wary and amused, as Ellion grabbed up the Dwarven tome and started to head out of the tent.

“Another lesson?” Alistair asked, already snuggled up with Fenrir.

With a hum and a smile, Ellion wiggled the book in his hand and slipped outside. Practically trotting around the canvas structure, he bumped right into the rogue. Far from put off, Zevran laughed. “Eager, I see.”

“Perhaps.” He slipped his mother’s pendant from behind the undone cords of his tunic. “A promised trade.” Not a demand, but an offer.

“A promise indeed. Come, we will get comfortable while I think of a lesson.”

“And what you want in return.”

A sultry grin was aimed his way and Ellion good naturedly rolled his eyes. The assassin was playfully shoved in the direction of his tent and with a mocking bow, Zevran led the way. Inside, Ellion seated himself as Zevran began removing his armor. There was no denying by the way he moved and the time he took that Zevran was being coy in his undressing.

After last night, a greater comfort lay between them. For this reason, Ellion was less abashed about staring. His eyes traced along the abstract designs tattooed into the skin of Zevran’s back. They curved sinuously in tribal like designs, but Ellion could see no specifically discernable shape.

“Is there any meaning to them?”

There was no doubt as to what the archer meant. Zevran reached back over his shoulder, fingers slowly tracing one curving line. “Not particularly. They are meant to follow the flow of muscle and arch of bone to accentuate the curves of the body.”

“So their purpose is sensuality, basically?”

“It is,” Zevran purred. When he was down to only his pants as before, he settled before the other Elf. “And yours?”

“My vallaslin, you mean?” Ellion’s fingers rose to trace along the twisting pale green design on his forehead and down the bridge of his nose.

“Ah, is that what the facial markings are called? I had wondered. May I?”

Not entirely sure of the specifics, Ellion nodded regardless. He held still as Zevran took his face in his hands and leant in to better study the vallaslin. Patiently, Ellion sat as his head was tipped this way and that. When he was released, Ellion brushed his thumb over the mark.

“Vallaslin means blood writing. The ink for the tattoo contains our own blood. It is part of the ritual.”

“Now that is most interesting. Most tattoo inks are simply made from dyes gathered from plants or insects.”

“True enough,” Ellion agreed. “Many of our people will get regular tattoos that mimic the design of their vallaslin done on the rest of their body as well. They can be quite beautiful. I have considered it several times.”

“I could help with that should you ever choose to do so. So is each vallaslin different, then?”

“No. The patterns vary a little from clan to clan, but generally they’re similar. There are eight basic templates corresponding to eight of our nine Gods. What the design for Fen’harel was… No one is sure. Perhaps there never was one for him.” His voice was calm, strong. Normally in the presence of strangers, the topic of the Elvhen Pantheon was brought up with trepidation.

Even towards the other Dalish, Ellion sometimes found himself treading lightly. So broken was their knowledge of their own culture that each clan had a varied set of beliefs. While the core was always the same, their rituals and habits changed. Belief was a sensitive topic even in their clan gatherings and it was not wise to speak without caution. With Zevran, however, there was no hesitation. The other Elf had yet to judge him and so he spoke in faith that this time would be the same.

He was rewarded to find he was right.

“Fen’harel? And what does he stand for?”

“He Who Hunts Alone. It is said that Fen’harel could walk among both groups of Gods; Our Elvhen Gods and the Forgotten Ones. He was seen by both as kin. He is most known for his betrayal and it is said he is the God of Trickery and perhaps Rebellion. For reasons unknown to us he locked away the other Gods, both the Elvhen and the Forgotten Ones, so neither could communicate with us any longer. Good in one case, terrible in another.”

A golden toned finger traced the twisting design on his forehead. “And this God?”

“Goddess. Ghilan’nain, the Mother of Halla. Originally one of the People, the Elvhen, she was gifted with Godhood by Andruil, the Goddess of the Hunt, for her devotion to animals.” Ellion’s fingers took hold of his mother’s silver halla pendant, a subconscious gesture that did not go unnoticed.

The assassin chuckled. “It seems you have a reoccurring theme with these creatures.”

Unabashed, Ellion smiled. “Perhaps. I do have a great fondness for them and they are sacred to the Dalish. They help pull our aravel, our wagons, and they mourn our deaths and celebrate our joy with us.”

Blonde brows crept up in honest surprise and curiosity. “They are capable of recognizing such moments of importance?”

“Indeed. They have a very basic understanding of language. They cannot speak to us, of course, but they can understand us better than just recognizing commands. They can read our tone and body language and we have in turn learned to read theirs. It allows basic communication at least.” Wistfulness had brightened his words and without realizing it, Ellion’s smile had turned to a grin as he mulled over old memories.

“I had a guilty habit of bringing our herd treats as well. Got to the point where they would be huffy if I didn’t bring something back with me,” he laughed. “Fruits, nuts, and sweet flowers such as honey suckle and the like. When I was little I would often fall asleep with the herd. I curled up most often against the eldest female. The silly lady would try and groom me and get my hair in a mess.”

“You miss them, I take it.”

“I do. I miss them as much as I miss any member of my clan. They were friends to me and family just as the Elves were.” The levity in his voice fell, dampened with longing. It did not go unnoticed.

Without warning, Zevran leaned in, nipping at his lower lip. “If you tell me all of that then we will have nothing to trade later.”

Taken aback by the sudden action, Ellion was effectively distracted. In a single fluid movement, Zevran twisted around the Warden to settle behind him as before. Ellion had hardly glanced back in mild surprise before arms banded around his waist. The journal that had been settled in his lap was rapped with calloused knuckles.

“Read, for me.”

Still at first, Ellion began once more with the alphabet, but as he went through them with growing success, he eased back against the warmth of the other’s chest. After he had run through the alphabet, Zevran drilled him on random letters; testing that it was not a memorization of order, but true understanding.

When they started on simple sentences, Ellion was unsurprised to find that the other rogue’s snark had returned.

“… Zevran… Does that say that Sten has a stick up his…?”

“Ah! Working out the words before I’ve even finished. You are getting quite adept at this. A fast learner indeed. I may have to expand upon my lessons.” The trail of fingers across Ellion’s abdomen, snuck beneath his tunic, left no doubt to what Zevran meant.

Lightly, Ellion scoffed. “One skill at a time.” He could feel the growing grin against his jaw as Zevran noted the lack of definite ‘no’.

“Can’t you write something kind like, ‘Leliana adores shoes?’”

“Saying she has a lovely rear is not nice?”

“Uch…” The back of Ellion’s hand thwapped the rogue’s arm and caused his writing to smear.

With a tsk, Zevran nipped at Ellion’s ear, briefly sucking on the lobe before releasing it. “Naughty,” he uttered as he had to start his sentence over again.

There was no way that the heavy shudder the touch at wrought had gone unnoticed, but Zevran feigned ignorance as he continued to write. Silently, Ellion was grateful. Memories of that night in Denerim were still fresh and while they filled him with warmth so too did they fill him with confusion. He worried at his lower lip.

It was blatant that Zevran was sexually open; he had no qualms in showing that. A terrible tease and flirt, Zevran also had a way of making you feel special; adored.

Within the Sabrae Clan, Ellion had been raised firmly on monogamy. An Elven couple, once married, looked to no one else. While heterosexuality was not strictly enforced, relations of the same sex were severely frowned upon. The Clan was small in number, as were the Dalish as a whole. Any coupling that did not produce children was a risk.

It was such teachings that had caused Ellion to hold his tongue when he had come to the realization that he loved Tamlen beyond friendship. Fear that Tamlen would be disgusted; fear that the Clan would send them away.

To this day he cursed himself for it.

Such haunting regret had weakened his resistance when Zevran had approached him. Never again did he want to live with the knowledge of what could have been only to know he had never taken the chance.

And the experience had been incredible.

Only in his head, his mind was screaming that this was wrong; that the clan would be disappointed.

_But they are no longer your Clan… You are alone now._

He swallowed tightly.

It did not help that Zevran was open about his numerous relations. And numerous might have been an understatement it seemed.

Where Ellion had been raised to hold the body sacred, the act of love making a gift only for your bonded, Zevran had been raised in a whorehouse and then among assassins. Raised to believe that the body and sex were a tool; a possible weapon to disarm your foes and get what you needed.

The attention Zevran laved on him now felt wonderful, but what would happen when the rogue eventually moved on? Be it out of necessity or choice. He was being hunted. Settling somewhere was not an option for Zevran, but a time would come when Ellion had to stop and stay.

_Why are you worrying? It was one night. I thought I had come to terms with that… One night._

But his upbringing continued to scream that there would be no others, that he had made his choice and that this was it.

He had failed to notice when Zevran had expectantly tapped the page with his quill some time back and had started to call his name.

A breath blew gently into his ear and Ellion jolted.

“Is something the matter, dear Warden?”

“Sorry… I was thinking.”

“Anything you wish to discuss?” Open, curious, but undemanding. It was an offer, not a push. In that moment Ellion seriously wished that it was simply more than one night.

Was it possible that it could be more than that?

He licked his lips. “Not yet.”

Warmth nuzzled his neck. “Take your time.”

Little got done that night. Ellion’s distraction as his thoughts continued to chase themselves was obvious, and Zevran kept their practice easy as well as short.

When Zevran eased them down to sleep, there was no questioning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3 – Zevran becomes aware of certain doubts and leads the Warden to face them.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: This chapter gets to be NSFW. There is nothing between the end of the chapter and the NSFW stuff really, maybe the last few sentences, so if you want to skip that portion, you can do so without having to worry about missing anything if you don’t scan through it.

Their ritual became a familiar one. Eagerly, Ellion awaited each evening when the party would settle down. Every morning they arose to varying curiosity and suspicion. More than one person looked at them with disapproval or resignation.

By the fifth morning, Ellion opened his mouth to protest, tired of it. He was surprised when Zevran covered his mouth. Glancing back, Ellion caught the assassin’s wink.

“It is more fun to reveal the truth if we play the game longer.”

“I already told Alistair… but somehow I don’t think he quite believes me.”

“That would spoil the fun.” Darting in, Zevran pecked a kiss on Ellion’s nose. Somewhere he heard Alistair squeak. With a roll of his eyes, Ellion playfully shoved Zevran away, but there was no repressing his smile.

“You’re terrible.”

“You love it,” Zevran laughed.

And Ellion found that he did. He flashed Alistair a rare grin, going along with the ruse and enjoying it as Alistair flushed and returned to packing hurriedly.

Little seemed to get in the way of their lessons which felt more and more like an excuse to simply spend time with the other Elf.

A particularly brutal fight had ended their travelling early one day. Sten had protested any need to stop on his account, even as blood dripped rapidly from the wide wound on his arm, but with Leliana’s thigh gashed deep as well, there would be no risking it.

Wynne set to tending their more grievously injured as the remainder of the party applied salves and bandages. With Alistair’s help, Ellion had tied off a bandage around the shallow cut on his upper arm. A muttered Antivan swear had drawn Ellion’s attention to the other rogue as he bore the burn of a particularly potent potion on a nasty scrape.

“If you’re not feeling well, we can skip practice tonight.”

Zevran glanced up from scowling at his battered knees to laugh. “I had figured you would want a break with that.” He gestured towards Ellion’s newly acquired bandage. “You are certainly a dedicated student. And no, I would not mind having you in my tent.”

The words were punctuated with the wiggle of his eyebrows drawing a harrumph from Wynne while Alistair choked on his water and Morrigan rolled her eyes.

Unable to resist, Ellion grinned. “Having a skilled teacher helps.”

“I am moving my tent further away,” Morrigan muttered.

It was good to see Zevran laugh, truly.

Over dinner they discussed their route to Orzammar. It was somewhat alarming to see that they had covered nearly half the distance already.

“We’ve come that far? Already?”

His alarm had not gone unnoticed. Alistair gave him a funny look. “Yes? Isn’t that a good thing? The sooner we get there hopefully the sooner we can get this all worked out. Not exactly wise to take our time with the Blight.”

The Human was right. Nervously, he carded his hand back through his hair. “No, I know, I just… was surprised. Not sure I feel up to wrangling the Dwarves yet, honestly.”

“Tell me about it,” Alistair grumbled into his meal. “If you think surfacer Dwarves are ornery, I hear the ones in Orzammar are ten times worse.”

“Lovely,” Ellion sighed.

Observant as always, Fenrir had caught onto his master’s distress. The Dalish smiled as the whining mabari set his head in the Elf’s lap. When no one was looking, Ellion snuck the hound some of his food. Happily, Fenrir leaned against his side as his muzzle and ears were given a good scratching. When it was time for bed though, Ellion nudged the mabari away.

“Oh no you don’t. I need to read and you’re going to end up drooling all over the book.”

With a huff of offense, Fenrir plopped himself down right on Ellion’s foot.

“Hey!” the Elf laughed. “Don’t you dare.”

But he did. Rolling onto his back, Fenrir gave a pleading whine.

“You know, if you keep giving me this much attention to share my bed, Alistair might get jealous,” Ellion teased.

Happily, Fenrir woofed.

“Please… Please tell me you’re talking to the dog and not Zevran…”

“Why can’t it be both?”

“Gah!”

With a grin, Ellion leaned down. “Go get him.”

Easily distracted, Fenrir was off like a shot. On the other side of the tents Leliana gave a yelp as she was nearly bowled over and Alistair let out a particularly high pitched scream as he was tackled by a two hundred plus pound animal.

The arms that banded around his waist at that moment were not entirely unexpected.

“Ready?”

“Yes, but I think we’re going to have to just dive into this… mess.” Said mess, a several hundred page tome, was held aloft. “There is no way I am finishing this in time… What are we going to do exactly?”

“Take it a bit at a time. No one expects you to be a master of Dwarven culture.”

But Zevran’s words were met with a scoff. “You’d think so, but so far people have been pretty put off by my lack of knowledge on Human culture. I cannot see this going much better.”

One of his beaded forelocks was given a light tug as Zevran released him. “A bit at a time,” he reminded.

With a tentative hum of agreement, Ellion followed the other into his tent.

This evening, Ellion had not even bothered to feign as if he were still sleeping in Alistair’s tent. His own bedroll had been set up beside Zevran’s and his pack was already waiting as he went to rummage through it to change. He was every inch aware of the way Zevran watched him change. It was difficult not to feel self-conscious.

They settled as they had grown accustomed to; Zevran behind him, legs to either side and chin on his shoulder. This time, however, instead of pulling out the familiar journal, Zevran flipped open the heavy tome.

“Are you sure about wanting to start in on this?” he questioned.

Ellion sighed. “If I don’t start now I might as well not even bother. We have five or six days before we reach the gates if we are able to keep our pace close.”

But it was easier said than done. The fact that the text was full of archaic words did nothing to help. More often than not, Ellion found himself stumbling over words so horribly he had to give in and let Zevran read it for him.

Frustrated, he harshly rubbed the heels of his palms over his face, digging his nails into his forehead. The sting provided a focus for his emotional frustration, giving it release by making it real.

He started with his hands were tugged away.

“Now, now, none of that.”

Ellion let his head fall back to thump onto Zevran’s shoulder. Tiredly, he stared at the tent roof. “Perhaps I should just give up on reading for now and let you read it for me… We haven’t even gotten through a single page yet with me leading.”

Disapproval ‘tsk’d in his ear. “That does not seem like you to give in.” Fingers drummed on Ellion’s stomach, almost tickling. “Perhaps I should increase the incentive,” Zevran voiced, thoughtfully.

Incentive… That word was both unnerving and _exciting_. His teeth grazed over his lip once, before he caught himself, stopping the tic. He turned his head, nose brushing along Zevran’s jaw, to watch him; expression curious.

The rogue grinned. “You will see. Come, read for me.”

With a weary sigh, Ellion righted himself and returned to the book. Zevran was right. He could not give in; he had no _right_ to give in. Thedas depended on him. It was selfish and petty for him to sulk over his own failings like this. The only way to overcome it was to forge ahead.

And so he did.

Thoughts of his companions and his Clan in his mind; the humans in Redcliffe who has so easily been willing to put their lives in his hands; the children he had saved at the Circle; and the Elves that waited in Denerim, Ellion forced himself to focus harder, meticulously picking apart the words before him.

He had entirely forgotten Zevran’s talk of incentive when a hand slipped up his shirt, tracing along the toned dips of his muscles. He jolted.

“What are you doing?”

“You got through almost that entire page with hardly any help.”

“Yes… I did… but what was that?”

Teeth found the nerves where his shoulder joined his neck and nipped before lips and tongue soothed away the sting. “That, was your incentive. As is this.” Lips sucked harder at his skin, enough that Ellion knew there would most likely be a mark in the morning, but he was too distracted by the burst of tingles that raced up his neck and along his jaw to care.

When Zevran released his skin, he tapped his fingertips rhythmically to a silent tune on Ellion’s stomach. “Keep going.”

Voice wavering at first, Ellion cleared his throat and continued on, as requested. Stumbles were inevitable, as the Dwarven nobility seemed as fond of flowery language as any nobles were, but with gentle nudges from Zevran in the right direction, they were overcome. With each victory, there was a reward.

Fingers dug into muscle, breaking apart knots and smoothing away tension. Lips peppered kisses along his jaw and at the nape of his neck while fingers traced patterns on his skin. Deft fingers undid the leather cord that kept the top layer of his hair away from his face and carded through the loose blonde strands. It was the last bit that had Ellion unable to hold in a moan.

Zevran laughed. “You like that then?”

The archer could only hum. It had been a little secret that Merrill had discovered when they were younger. The young Mage had curiously begun playing with his hair one day, enamored with one of the few children in the clan that did not avoid the “new girl”. In an instant Ellion had almost been asleep, practically drooling on himself with contentment.

Embarrassed the boy had threatened her never to tell anyone his “weakness”, but it had ever been a weapon. On more than one occasion, when he had lost his temper, Merrill had crept up and darted her fingers quickly through his hair, effectively melting his rage.

Now it seemed there were two who knew his little quirk.

After several moments of Zevran finger combing his hair, Ellion managed to force out in a slur, “If you keep doing that I’m going to be asleep and no reading will get done at all.”

“That is not entirely a bad thing. It is rather late.”

“Just a little bit more,” Ellion mumbled.

“Hair combing? Or reading?”

Limply, Ellion flopped his hand on the book. It was about the best response he could muster. He was rewarded with a chuckle as Zevran at last withdrew his hands from the archer’s hair.

But as they continued, Zevran grew bolder. Fingers that traced his stomach rose to brush across his nipples or slipped low to brush at the edge of his pubic hair. Teeth found his ear and it was impossible not to notice the hardness that pressed against his tailbone.

It was exciting, but so too was it frightening.

He could not forget the lectures as they had grown, when playful wrestling sometimes went too far. When changing bodies had prompted them to curiously observe one another and shyly ask to see or touch. To them it had not seemed wrong. They had only been confused and wanted to understand; to explore new and strange feelings that were frankly exciting.

But the adults had frowned and shook their heads. It was not their place to look or to touch. There would be a time for that, they were told, when they were older; when the elders and the Keeper had spoken together to choose a suitable mate for them.

Where once it was completely normal for Tamlen, Fenarel, Junar, and Ellion to bathe together, it suddenly became awkward and wrong. Playful jokes, gestures, and games they used to play were no longer okay and more than once the confused children had found themselves the recipients of lectures about what boys did and did not do together. For the good of the clan, the elders had said, but Ellion never quite understood it.

When he had begun to realize that he just could not stop wanting to be close to Tamlen, wanting to touch, to stare, to speak to, Ellion had retreated. Tamlen had never seemed to mind, perhaps even indulged it, but Ellion had been too scared to risk it.

A hand brushed over his clothed arousal and Ellion jolted, sucking in his breath. “I am not sure it is a good idea for us to keep doing this,” he uttered swiftly.

The hand stopped and hovered. “You hesitate. Why? You have been rather receptive so far and you are certainly enjoying it.” Fingers stroked once along Ellion’s erection and his eyes squeezed tight.

“I just…” How did he express his fears without offending the other? Zevran was fairly easy going from what he had seen in the month the rogue had accompanied them, but if there was one thing the rogue frowned at it was when his sexuality and open nature were criticized.

But he had started the discussion and he would have to finish it. He drew away from Zevran and turned to face him. This would be a conversation best done without hiding.

“To be honest… we were raised monogamous; the other children and I, in the clan. And while they did not forbid us from loving another of the same gender it was… pretty heavily discouraged. To interact in any way sexual with someone that was not our bonded was… That was simply not a thing.”

The expression on Zevran’s face was not quite a frown, but his discontent was still obvious. Ellion’s stomach squirmed.

“Does this bother you then?” Knuckles glided down the side of his neck.

His voice was a whisper. “No.”

And then Zevran was moving closer, edging forward on his knees until he was practically in Ellion’s lap. It was difficult to remain still. Part of Ellion screamed to withdraw, the other yearning to lean in closer.

Dark lips brushed over his own paler skin and he was helpless not to respond to the kiss.

“Does this bother you?” The words ghosted over his lips. He shook his head, bumping noses.

When his eyes rose, he found hazel ones staring back intently.

“Does my history bother you?”

And there it was. It was inevitable that the question would come up between them, but he had hoped to have more time to figure out where he stood before he was forced to face it. He refused to be dishonest to buy himself time, however.

“I do not know. My upbringing would have me say yes, but my knowledge and experience have given me no reason to say anything but no. You are… aware that my affections for Tamlen were more than friends?”

“I had put that together, yes.”

“That you too are male is of no discomfort to me.”

Then Zevran was in his lap. His eyes shut reflexively as he struggled not to press his hips up into Zevran’s. By the Creators, it was difficult.

“Then it is my experience.”

Teeth nipped at his lower lip, drawing it in so that Zevran could suckle upon it. The flesh was darkened and swollen by the time it was released and Zevran moved onto similarly marking his neck.

Speaking was difficult. “It is a bit daunting.”

A chuckle gusted over his now damp skin and Ellion sucked in a breath. “That is one way to put it, I suppose.”

“You do not act as I expected and it gives me pause.”

Hazel eyes, darkened to light brown, watched him intensely. In that moment, Ellion knew that what he said next would forever alter their relationship; to break or to deepen.

“You tease and you like to push buttons, toe lines, but I’ve noticed that you never cross them. You extend offers and make suggestions, but never do you force. Maybe the others would disagree… but you are respectful, in your own way. How is it that you say it? ‘No more than you are willing to give’?”

This was not coming out right. Frustration caught in his throat. He was fumbling this. Truly, he liked the rogue. Sometimes the flirting could be exasperating, but he brought levity to their somber group that was sorely needed, a levity that Alistair could not tackle alone with his constant conflicts with Morrigan. There was no fear of judgment or disapproval from the other Elf and while in Denerim it had been nice to have another of his own kind with him in the face of so many Humans.

“I’m fucking this up,” he sighed.

The twitch at the corner of Zevran’s lip was a good sign at least. He had not completely tipped and burned the aravel yet.

“Creators, how to explain… I trust you. Alistair thinks I’m insane, seeing as we met when you tried to kill us, but… I don’t know. Perhaps you’re just very good at being disarming, but I’ve never felt in any way in danger with you since you joined, be it a life threat or sexual. I know if I asked, you would stop.” He could not help but look away this time.

The conversation was delving into topics that simply were not discussed. Usually any talks of sex were strict and sterile lessons or lectures when they had over stepped some unmarked boundary as they grew into limbs and hormones.

“I feel comfortable around you. I suppose that’s why I came to you with this, to start with.” Ancient pages were carelessly flipped from where the tome had fallen to the side when Ellion had turned.

“There is no fear of judgment, of insult, hurt, or being taken advantage of with you. I was raised to believe such feelings and actions were wrong and in turn I expect to find that only ‘wrong’ people do such things… but you’re not a ‘wrong’ person.”

“There are some who would debate that.”

At last, a tease. Ellion fairly sagged with relief at the good sign. “I want to trust that you are right in that this is okay… but I’ve always been taught it is wrong or that to feel this way makes me sick, so I hesitate.”

“It’s not wrong and you are not sick.”

Tentative, hopeful, Ellion whispered, “It isn’t?”

“No.”

It was bitter sweet. A relief to know that all this time it was _okay_ ; that he was not sick for feeling as he did. Yet, in the same moment, it made his regrets all that much harder to swallow. How he wished now that he had risked telling Tamlen the truth of his feelings.

He was unaware that he had shed tears until the pad of a thumb brushed them away. His eyes fluttered open, alarmed. He caught Zevran watching him, brows furrowed, head cocked. “What is it?”

Breath shaky, Ellion exhaled. “All those years… hiding. I was so close to just saying something, but I let my fear have control and I never did… and then he was gone. I don’t want to have regrets like that; never again, but some part of me is still screaming that it’s wrong to do things like this.”

The palm of his hand brushed along Zevran’s jaw, cupping the back of his neck.

“I’m unsure, nervous, but I never want to feel this regret again. I never want to know there was a chance and I was too scared to take it.”

Closer, Zevran tapped their forehead together, gazing back unblinking. “Then jump.”

A hesitant heartbeat, then Ellion allowed himself to leap into the abyss.

His hand jerked Zevran forward, their lips slamming together, teeth clicking. He winced, but the other rogue continued, unrelenting. With equal ferver, when Ellion thrust his hips up, Zevran pressed down, grinding their arousals together. The kiss released with a gasp from the archer. The parting was short as Zevran took the moment to thrust his tongue into the archer’s mouth.

Somewhere in the tangle of lips, teeth, and roaming hands, Ellion’s shirt had been removed. There was hardly a moment to ponder it when his hair was gripped tightly and the pair pulled back together again. The tight hold of fingers on the honey toned strands drew a moan and he felt Zevran grin into the kiss. His quirk had gone unforgotten and in truth he did not mind.

His own hands left Zevran’s shoulders enough to fumble with the rogue’s belt; fingers clumsy with nerves.

“Shhh,” Zevran hissed lightly into his ear. “Allow me.”

Ellion swallowed tightly, but forced himself to focus on exploring the richly tanned body of the eager rogue straddling his lap. The planes and curves were not wholly unfamiliar, but the last, and first, time he had lain with Zevran, he had been inebriated. The alcohol had dulled nerves, but so to had it leant a fuzzy quality to the memory that made this experience feel almost new again.

Curious, he traced the sinuous inked lines along Zevran’s torso and back with light touches before tentatively leaning to follow them instead with his tongue. An appreciative sound rumbled in Zevran’s throat as Ellion felt the ties of his breaches tug loose.

The tension that rose in his thighs did not go unnoticed. The laces were undone and left. Calloused fingers drew senseless patterns on his abdomen, barely beneath the seam of his breeches. They kneaded flesh until the nerves bled away, until the smaller Elf was rocking upwards against Zevran again, desperate to feel more.

Lips brushed along his jaw and breathed into his ear. “May I?”

Not trusting his voice, Ellion nodded. The folds of his breeches were pushed away and his arousal was taken in hand. Head tipped back, a moan rose in his throat, only just caught in time before it could grow too loud.

The pleased quality of Zevran’s smile turned wicked.

“I am of half a mind, more than half, truly, to play a little game; to see how far I can pleasure you before you’re unable to remain quiet. You should not hold it in. You will find more joy if you allow yourself to sing.”

“Don’t even think about it,” Ellion gasped as skilled hands worked the hardened length of his erection. His apparent mortification only made Zevran appear more feral. The assassin leaned in, sucking on his lower lip.

“We shall see,” he teased when he released the reddened flesh.

Unwilling to be in this alone, but timid in such a sexual moment, Ellion slowly freed Zevran’s own arousal. The Antivan moaned appreciatively as the cloth was drawn away and his penis bobbed free. Open encouragement coaxed Ellion to give into curiosity over nerves. Lacking Zevran’s expertise, but no less passionate, Ellion’s fingers ran along the length before curling lightly around the hardened flesh.

“Now who is the tease,” Zevran chuckled lowly at the light, near tickling, touches.

The movements were slower and curious. The last time they had been together, Zevran had done the guiding and Ellion had clung on, overwhelmed by the experience. This time, he took his time to feel the softness of Zevran’s foreskin as it shifted under his hand with each motion. His fingers ran along the veins and, with some guidance from his partner, Ellion stroked his thumb up along the underside repeatedly brushing over the exposed frenulum.

Zevran fairly purred into his ear. “That’s it. You are a swift learner.”

Their free hands roamed along one another, curiously exploring and hunting for erogenous zones, reveling in each shiver and moan. Zevran was far more successful in the endeavor.

It was not long before Ellion felt nearly mindless by the build pleasure that burned along his nerves. Panting, he rocked against the Elf in his lap, their foreheads pressed together. Eventually, his wandering hand had given up. Instead, the clutched tightly at Zevran’s waist. He thought perhaps the dig of his nails would bother his lover, but there was no indication. Functioning thought had become a struggle; one that he was swiftly losing. Not that Zevran apparently minded.

Hazel eyes that had darkened into a rich brown crinkled at the edges with contentment. “Let go.”

Face pressed into the junction of Zevran’s neck, Ellion shook his head. “But you’re not—”

Teeth scrapped the lobe of his ear. “Come for me, love.”

And it was enough.

In a brilliant moment, all of the tension released. Lips pressed tight to Zevran’s skin as teeth clenched, trying and failing to swallow Ellion’s cry. His grip must have been painfully tight as he rode out the rhythmic clench of muscles. Taut against him, Zevran’s body still rocked, so close.

Exhausted, but unwilling to let his lover finish alone, Ellion’s hand slid between them again. Shaky fingers took Zevran’s arousal in hand, tighter this time as he stroked, the pad of his thumb brushing across the head with each pump.

Movements jagged now, Zevran gripped his hair and pulled Ellion into a crushing kiss as he found his own release. Content, Ellion pressed back, swallowing the rogue’s cry.

As pleasure faded, drowsiness crept its way in. The pair rested against one another as their breath was caught.

Sweaty, exhausted, and trembling, Ellion clung to Zevran. An arm slid around his waist to hold their bodies flush. Fingers pressed along his jaw to gently guide his head until one hazel met one green.

“Does this feel wrong?” Zevran murmured against his skin.

“No,” Ellion whispered, face crumpling with emotion. He bent to press his face tightly into the crook of Zevran’s neck. “No… it does not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Zevran refers to the Warden as ‘amor’, however I feel like the fact that he uses Antivan is more a sign of deep rooted affection and tenderness, so the fact that he says ‘love’ here instead of ‘amor’, is to show that while he cares for the Warden, it has not sunk in deeply yet.
> 
> Chapter 4 – Zevran likes to sneak naughty poetry into his notes and Ellion comes to find that convincing the Dwarves to help might be harder than he thought.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Can I just say that the first time through I deleted the first chunk of this chapter? And by first chunk I mean about 75% of it as it was gone all the way through the Dwarven text “quotes” about the monarchy/assembly. I saved it as a temp file and didn’t realize it until I came back to work the next day and realized it was gone. I about cried at my office. So yeah… I’ll pretend that it was destiny that I deleted it so I could write it better. Yeeeah… that’s it. *Cough*
> 
> Also, thank everything ever for having received the World of Thedas books. Helped me with trying to figure out Dwarf “religion” while editing this chapter. The wiki served for information on the government. Pardon if anything is a bit off. (When finally finish reading the World of Thedas books I’ll come back to perhaps tweak anything about the way Dwarven politics work if it feels necessary.)

With time, Ellion’s reading became somewhat passable. That was, if passable included having Zevran peeking at the text every sentence to explain or pronounce various words for him. It did nothing to help that the old tome was filled with archaic text.

And without the time to learn the art of writing (at least nothing legible), the rogue had also been recruited into making notes for the Warden.

Said notes however were strewn about the tent, carefully folded into the shapes of various plants, objects, and animals. Zevran was sprawled out among them. Amused, Ellion watched as another paged was artfully folded. “Dare I ask why you know something like how to make animals out of paper? That doesn’t seem like a particularly useful skill for an assassin.”

“Not particularly. I was raised in a whore house. We were encouraged to pick up skills like these. Painting, singing, dancing, flower arrangement, even artfully folding paper. It fetches a higher price. Whores and eventual courtesans who were practitioners of various arts were worth more to the nobility. The poor could have cared less.”

Not entirely jovial, Zevran’s voice still held a flippancy that troubled Ellion. He had hardly heard of the concept of whores before Zevran and Denerim. While it had been in passing mentions from the Elders in regards to Shems and their disgusting practices, he had never explored the idea in depth. When he did, he found it rather horrifying and yet, Zevran appeared unbothered. The archer shuddered. The idea of experiencing that as a child…

“Needless to say my master, Talav, within the Crows was less enthused when I was purchased, but it was a way to pass the time between training and missions. It kept up my finger dexterity.”

“Yes, for all those locks you’re so wonderful at picking.”

A disdainful sniff from the other left Ellion smiling. “It was early. I had not yet awoken. It is rather cruel of you to have us up before the sun.”

“Well we cannot teleport to Orzammar, and you know, your notes would be easier to read if you were not turning them all into a pack of wolves.”

Dramatically, Zevran sighed, flinging his arm over his face. “You wound me. These are not wolves, they are hunting hounds. Truly, I have no skill. It is no wonder that the Crows would throw me to the hounds, pun intended.”

Thrown by the cliché, Ellion responded intelligibly, “Bwuh?”

“Oh, yes, I forget, you are Dalish and not one of these Ferelden dog people.”

Perhaps if he was, all of this might have been easier to make sense of. Looking around at their scattered notes and the text in his lap, the Warden felt incredibly overwhelmed. From what he could tell, the Dwarves did not even have any true religion. The author spoke reverently of “the Stone”. At first, he had been under the assumption that it symbolized a deity, but now he realized that the Dwarves did not even necessarily think of the Stone as an entity… simply a whole. A mother perhaps, but not a God. It was a concept that Ellion had difficulty getting his head around.

They spoke of the Stone as though a being, and yet while they held reverence, the Stone was not worshipped. One did not pray to the Stone, yet could some how take the term in vain. It seemed contradictory. Befuddled the Elf squinted at the texted, head cocking as if another angle would make sense of it all.

He had wondered if they had meant lyrium. Wynne had talked of the supposedly living stone in passing, but it was not the case. The Stone was literally the rock that comprised the earth.

Paragons had provided a momentary hope for connection and understanding, but that too had fallen flat. While the Dalish honored their Keepers, they did not consider them to a standard of almost divine, like the Dwarves appeared to do. Indeed, most Keepers were hardly known outside their own Clan or perhaps the closest neighbors. Paragons however were figures of reverence forever carved into history. Paragons shaped the Dwarven nature more so than any King or Queen had. Entire families rising up or cast down and all of society and entire ways of life changing based on a Paragon’s work or ideals. Paragons were said to provide strength to the closest thing to a God the Dwarves had when they passed and their bodies were buried.

It promoted an ideal of self-worship almost and the struggle to better one’s self and rise up in society. Silently he wondered at the vanity of feeling that one bettered a near deity with their passing.

Another folded piece of paper joined the many. On his back, Zevran casually flicked the pieces up in the air. The monotony between note taking was broken with the practice of filthy poetry. Ellion had rolled his eyes, good naturedly, at the assassin. Encouraged, Zevran had smiled cheekily, commenting that the folded poetry made it more fun. There was no telling when one would open a folded slip of parchment to find notes or a poem. Ellion’s nose crinkled.

It was a distraction that he indulged in and yet could not afford. Tiredly, he rubbed at his temple. They were a day away from the gates, two if the road was unkind to them. One day and he could give you the absolute basics of Dwarven culture, but for the life of him he would never be able to explain how to make sense of it all, let alone abide by all of the unofficial rules.

“Provings… you’re joking…”

Zevran’s latest poem was folded neatly into the shape of a deer and tossed onto the pile of paper hounds.

With a groan, Ellion hunched, smacking his face into the dusty book. Why was this so complicated?

Rolled onto his belly, Zevran grinned. “Is it not sweet? You may be asked to fight to the death for a Dwarf’s hand.”

Seconds later the paper deer plinked off of Ellion’s head. His head rose enough to scowl at Zevran through the fall of his hair.

He snatched up the tiny deer, but instead found himself contemplating the figure; hardly different than that of a halla. Provings… It was not exactly what Ellion had had in mind when the others had referred to the Dwarves as being austere.

The Dalish did not always agree, after the last Clan gathering and meeting between the Keepers he had borne witness to Marethari’s frustration. The elder woman had been beyond frustrated with the disagreements between the Keepers that refused to be settled. Never did she say they came to blows, at least not that he could recall. Certainly they never killed one another in “provings”.

Then again… he recalled anxious stories from neighboring Clans of Dalish in the north that had gone savage. Zevran had said something about the Clans in Antiva being far more aggressive.

_Enough. This isn’t the time to think of the Dalish. You should be reading about the Dwarves. Only one more day._

Sharply, he tugged one of the braids that kept his hair from his eyes. He focused on the sharp pain, allowing the sting to ground him. Resisting the urge to tug again, he let his hand fall away, eyes returning to the book in his lap as he turned the tiny deer over in his fingers.

The history of the Dwarves was vast, however. In the end he had to ask Zevran over to help him navigate to more recent political history. The sheer thickness of the section was daunting. “Better you than me, I say,” Zevran teased.

Deeply, he took a breath and began to slog through the mess.

_In current times, Orzammar is led by a constitutional monarchy._

“… What does constitutional mean?”

“Fancy paper things. Unimportant,” Zevran replied, flippantly.

The Warden glanced at him dubiously before continuing on.

_The King or Queen rules alongside the Assembly. The Assembly consists of higher noble houses that are represented by their chosen deshyrs. The number of noble houses of which have deshyrs in the Assembly can vary at any given time. Currently there are a total of approximately eighty represented families._

“ _Eighty!?_ ”

The incredulous squawk cut the quiet night. Not far away, Ellion could hear Alistair snort awake in alarm.

“I have to convince _eighty_ people!?”

The inquisitive sound from Zevran went ignored at Ellion frantically read ahead.

_While not unheard of, it is rare for the head of any noble household to be present in an Assembly. While they hold the authority to cast any final decision, their choice and the interests of their family are relayed to their deshyr that officially sits on the Assembly._

_While the King or Queen may state a decree, the Assembly holds the power to approve or veto any action taken by the monarch. The Assembly works to advise the monarch, but also proposes policies, declares Paragons, and holds the authority to elect new monarchs._

A string of mutter Dalish expletives expressed Ellion’s feelings on the matter. A clawed hand raked back through his hair. This was worse than he had expected. It was said that the Dwarves were currently in a stand still has they worked to replace their ailing, or passed, King, but now Ellion realized that the King hardly even mattered. While the Assembly might refuse to make any decisions until there was a new monarch on the throne, the fact of the matter was that the monarch hardly mattered at all.

In the end, it all fell to those eighty strangers. Ellion could curry all the favor he wanted with a new King, but if the Assembly vetoed the new leader, it hardly mattered how much the King liked the Warden.

Worse, none of the nobles he had to convince were even on the Assembly. Any communications were passed from them, to their deshyrs to fellow deshyrs and then to the other nobles. Then no doubt the head of each family would be swayed by other members of their family… He had feared having to convince eighty people, when in reality he would need to convince eighty families… Or at least the majority.

“I think I feel sick,” he groaned.

Forehead braced in his hands, elbows on his knees, Ellion read on with dread.

_When the current monarch passes, the Assembly goes into a state of deliberation until a new monarch is selected by a majority vote. While it is traditional for the King or Queen to nominate an heir, often an eldest child, but sometimes even someone from another House, it is not required. Their nomination holds signification weight, however it is not the final determination in the selection of the new monarch._

_Fighting, black mail, and assassination may arise and grow fierce as contenders vie for the throne. The Assembly may appoint their own nominations towards the throne. Such deliberations can often grow complicated or bloody and make last for months before the succession is resolved._

The word almost echoed, pounding, in his head.

_The monarch may propose new legislation, but the Assembly holds the authority to block any legislation through veto, dissent, or deadlock. This can often limit the monarch’s ability to affect domestic law and cripple international relations. The primary function of the monarch is as an important figure in ceremony and as Commander-in-Chief._

_The greatest autonomy of the monarch is the deployment of troops and training warriors. However, the General of the army is a separately-held office. Even the monarch’s role as Commander-in-Chief is mainly as a figurehead._

Ceremony. Figurehead.

The words stood out to him glaringly.

His mind struggled to wrap around the absurdity of the situation that was rumored to be lying before him.

From everything he had heard the Dwarves were at a standstill. Merchants in Denerim had bemoaned that the Dwarven city was on lock down, letting no goods in or out. Wynne had spoken of dwindling lyrium supplies as the miners had no way to ship their goods.

The Dwarves would remain in their stand still until a monarch was chosen.

In order to gain a monarch eighty families would have to form a majority decision of whom to pick amongst the black mailing, fighting, and assassinations.

This monarch would be nothing more than ceremonial… a near empty title; One that could take months of debating to fill.

And once it was, another debate would need to be begun by the same eighty families about whether or not to get involved with the Blight.

At some point, his breathing had accelerated. Why had he let Alistair talk him into this? Lead a party of nine adventurers? That he could do, but convince eighty strangers and their kin of a vastly different culture who they should elect as their new leader and to summon their army?

More than once the text was very clear on the stubborn nature of Dwarves, their dislike for outsiders, and their tendency to take weeks if not months or years to make any major decision. His fingers dug into his forearms until the skin broke. There was not time for that lengthy of a progress.

He had seen the devastation of Lothering when they had passed. The blackened land had stretched out bleakly. Homes lay in ruins and the bodies… Creators, the bodies. His mouth watered, bitter with nausea.

There had been nothing identifiable, merely pieces. Limbs were scattered and gnawed, heads rolled far from the bodies and mangled in a way that left no features recognizable; and those were the ones not cracked open entirely, empty of their contents. Torsos were torn wide, sinew and gore stringing from cage like ribs; testaments to the feast that had occurred.

They could not afford to wait weeks, let alone months. For the Dwarves, this Blight was a reprieve, and he could not blame them for wanting to extend the break, but he could not help but think of all the people on the surface dying.

Would the Humans unlock the alienage to let the Elves there flee if the Darkspawn came? He feared the answer; left, caged and trapped.

Would his clan be able to out run the Darkspawn? One could only run so far before they could run no more. The Darkspawn, however, were endless.

Could he honestly agree to fight to the death over Dwarven politics? He would, if there was no other way, but what would happen should he die? Would Alistair be able to take over? He liked the Human, even considered him a friend, but even after his growth in the wake of Goldanna’s rejection he still hesitated so much, shied from choices. Did they have any hope of convincing the Dalish, let alone _finding_ them without him?

They were running out of time, and fast. He had been unable to convince even his best friend, the man he had secretly loved, not to do something; not to touch that damnable mirror. How would he have any hope of convincing a large group of strangers he understood nothing about?

He was unaware of the blood or the way his fingers had clawed open the skin or how his stomach had clenched so tightly he had stopped breathing all together.

A gentle breath of air brushed his face.

“Breathe.”

Air sucked sharply in, but his lungs refused to expand more than a scant inch. The air was released and instantly brought back in with shuddering short breaths.

Zevran was before him. Fingers worked his nails away from his arms, and Ellion’s hands snapped up to clutch at the rogue’s undershirt with bloodied fingers. Hands had gently taken his jaw, finger tips rubbing slow circles beneath his ears at the joint of his jaw. “Relax. Slowly, now.”

But his mind had shut down; thoughts stuck on loop. Over and over the same repeated panic until he had forgotten what had started it, only that he need to _run_.

He started to rise, twisted to pull away, but Zevran kept his grip strong. When he tried to break away again, Zevran rolled them, pinning Ellion down. Frustration and stress rose and choked in his throat. His hips twisted and bucked, attempting to throw the other off, but Zevran laid himself flat, the grip of his hands on Ellion’s wrists only tight enough to hold them still.

The reminder to breathe ghosted over his skin and urgings to relax and calm down murmured in the shell of his ear. Forced to stillness, Ellion could do nothing by focus on the rise and fall of Zevran’s breath and the steady rhythm of his heart. Bit by bit, the churning in his stomach began to ebb.

When at last his heart ceased its racing, Ellion released his breath in a shaky waver. It took a moment or two longer to regain his voice, though it fell low even in the quiet of the tent.

“There’s no way I can do this. It could take months and by then… So many are dead already.”

Quiet and then the gentle press of lips on his jaw. Equally low, Zevran responded, “And this is why you are not alone.”

Ellion’s head twisted away enough to glance at the other. His eyes were dubious, and yet equally, they held hope.

The fingers around his wrist slid up to entwine with his own and squeezed reassuringly.

 

The body was shoved off the blade impaled through its ribs with a grunt.

“And stay down,” Alistair grumbled.

“I think that is the last of them,” Wynne sighed.

Around them the snow of the Frostback Mountains was splattered red and pink. Expression dark, Ellion’s eyes roamed the bodies of the fallen.

“If Loghain has the money to send Crows and bounty hunters after us, he could be bothered fixing up that wreck he calls a city. Or to feed the starving there.”

Crouched to rummage the pack of one hunter, Leliana shook her head sadly. “One would think, but such is the way of nobility, even those that were born in poverty and worked their way up.”

There was little of use on the men. Their bodies were moved from the main road, left to the encroaching trees for the scavengers to have.

As they continued on, it was the clamor of voices that first had them glancing among one another. There was frustration, anger, and desperation among the din of what could only be a crowd. Up the stairs and through the scrappy pines, the court yard before Orzammar laid itself out before them. And it was packed.

“It would seem, the rumors are true,” Wynne spoke up. “The city is closed.”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions. Let’s talk to some of these people and find out what they know,” Alistair tentatively suggested.

But for all his hope, they remained disappointed. One female Dwarf snarled and smacked her fist into her palm. “They cannot do this to me! I have contracts! If they want to not starve then they can bloody well let me in or come out here. Not that they will, hypocrites.”

Likewise sentiments were expressed all around. Humans whispered hushed theories of conspiracy or dramatics while the Dwarves more loudly railed about their stubborn estranged kin.

“It’s always this way,” a man lamented. Unhappily, his stubby fingers combed through the wiry bronze hair of his beard. “Any time something of upset occurs in the city they go into a lock down. Prideful fools can’t bear to let anyone seem them at ‘less than their best’. Pah. Best…” Scornful, his head shook.

“Do you know when the gates might reopen?” Even as Ellion asked, his expression had already bordered on a cringe, expecting the worst.

He was not disappointed.

“Most likely until whatever political mess they’ve started this time gets resolved. Rumor has it they’re squabbling over elections. Could be years, but they cannot keep us out forever. They have no way to produce their own food outside of meats and some fungi and certainly nothing to make cloth with. They’ll have to deal with us sooner or later.”

But sooner or later could still be weeks. Frustrated, Ellion pinched the bridge of his nose.

One particularly loud bout of rage, however, caught his ear. Their pointed lengths perked as he turned to the growing commotion.

“By the order of King Loghain, I demand that you allow us into the city!”

A growl of irritation sounded over Ellion’s shoulder. He did not need to look back to picture the snarl on Alistair’s face. “King, now, is it? That was awfully fast of him…”

“Are you really surprised?” Ellion muttered in return.

“No, but you would think the man would have _some_ honor.”

“Oh, what a stunning surprise. Alistair, wrong yet again? Say it is not so!”

Sighing, Ellion broke in before the two could get into it fully. “Morrigan, stop. Alistair, don’t.”

“How’s the saying go? Don’t make me turn this wagon around?” Zevran quipped.

“Zevran…” But there was no irritation in the Warden’s voice, nor could he stop the way the corners of his lips curled up. He swayed with a shifting step, moving closer to the other Elf to bump shoulders in teasing reprimand.

With a sense of timidity, Ellion risked slipping his hand into his companion’s. With relief, he felt the squeeze of his fingers returned. He could almost feel the heat of Zevran’s skin as the other’s face leant near his own.

“Not alone.”

Two simple words, yet he felt his nerves wane as his courage was bolstered. The tension slipped from his shoulders.

“Not alone,” Ellion murmured back. With his head held high, they started towards the gates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tada. Nearly 19,000 words later, we’re finished. Phew. This story was meant to be only 2,000 to 4,000 words perhaps… >__> So much for that idea.

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 2 – Progression in more ways than one and Ellion begins to have doubts and fears.


End file.
